


C'est franglais, my dear

by GwenChan



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Drabble Collection, Genderswap, Historical, Historical References, M/M, Modern Era, POV Alternating, Personification, Rivalry, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:00:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 39
Words: 4,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21561844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwenChan/pseuds/GwenChan
Summary: One fandom, one OTP and 100 prompts.Shall we commence?
Relationships: England/France (Hetalia)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 70





	1. Rain

**Rain**

"What a shitty weather."

England huddles even more under the poor protection offered by a military coat draped over his head.

“I thought you liked rain.”

Mud makes strange noises under the heels of his boots.

“When I’m home, safe and warm.”

Water sloshes around their ankles. Like this, the trench will be flooded by evening.

“Ask your superiors for a transfer.”

France can’t deny he caressed the possibility. England snorts. “We are needed here.”

“I know.”

He comes to sit besides Arthur, offering a cigarette they can’t light. The following mutter is barely audible in the storm. “Then, it’s not like I can abandon you.”


	2. Dream

**Dream**

They have been married for almost eighty years. 

This morning France reminds himself to stop abandoning his wedding ring in the kitchen when he takes it off to knead. Judging by how quiet the house is, Arthur must have already left. He answers the phone with an acid: "What do you want?"

"Just ... when do you think you're coming back? For lunch, I was thinking -"

England stops him mid-sentence. "Very nice, but I don't care about your private life. Goodbye." 

Right.  _ His _ private life. Obviously. There has never been a " _ us" _ . 

And yet, while the coffee wakes him up completely, he swears he can still feel the ghost of a ring on his ring finger. 


	3. Happiness

** Happiness **

With a satisfied sigh, Arthur bites into a scone, spread with a generous amount of strawberry jam.

"Yes, you're forgiven."

The reason doesn't matter. If France offers to help him with five o'clock tea and even goes so far as to follow his instructions, Arthur can deem himself happy. 

Not even the smell of coffee, which also the Frenchman insisted on preparing, does bother him. Neither does the blabbering in Frenglish, for once.

"Next week at my house?" Francis propose.

England drops a sugar cube in his cup of tea. 

"Maybe."


	4. Daughter

**Daughter(s)**

Amelia stirs in her dreams, a pint of concentrated energy even when sleeping. Dozing on the other side, Margaret - or Marguerite, as Rose's loved-hated half insists on calling her - is a little angel.   
Rose sighs, plopping back until she sinks into the armchair, careful to not wake the little girls.   
Seeing Céline appear at the door of the living room door makes her wish she could crystallize the scene forever. Relations between France and Great Britain are still bad and the truce only a brief interlude - if she could, Céline would take Margaret back right that instant - but for a moment they can pretend and they can play the happy little family. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amelia is Nyo!America, Margaret/Marguerite Nyo!Canada, Rose Nyo!England and Céline Nyo!France.


	5. Grapes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was based on a pun/word-joke I can't translate in English, sorry

**Grapes**

"Taste this"   
A handful of blue-purplish grapes accompany France's invitation, so mature they turn into pulp at the slightest touch.  
Arthur pops one into his mouth, his brow furrowed.   
"Too sweet" he comments, lapidary.   
Against every expectation, Francis laughs, a hand holding his straw hat in place, essential in the September sun.   
"Not everyone can be acid and callow as you, Angleterre."   
"I'm not callow!"   
Francis just shakes his head. "You are, you are."   
Then he bends low enough to whisper in his ear.   
"But even unripe grapes ends up maturing sooner or later." 


	6. Shower

**Shower**

  
England tightens the grip on his wrist, a towel used as makeshift bandage supporting his arm around his neck. 

The micro-fracture should heal within minutes. For the moment, it still hurts like hell. He's too old for these things.

The bathroom looks like the aftermath of the most vicious battles: the floor flooded and slippery, the curtain ripped, and the soap ended somehow on one of the fan blades.

In all of that, the culprit is nowhere to be found. Of course, he thought well to disappear as soon as he smelled the danger.

"I told you taking a shower together wasn't a good idea."


	7. Cigarette

**Cigarette**

Ashes trickle down into the Sein, the embers of the cigarette dangerously close to the skin. France doesn't seem to care. After the occupation, a few burns must be nothing. He inhales drags as if he needed them to breathe.   
From all that Arthur remembers, Francis has always had the habit to smoke when stressed. No wonders, with all the worries that lately plague his head. Blame it on that clique of intellectuals of his  
"It's only for the aesthetic" France keeps saying.   
In feeling the taste of nicotine from his lips, England finds himself wondering how much truth is left in those words. 


	8. Heart

**Heart**

Francis grunts in his sleep as Arthur rests his ear on his chest, moving carefully as to not wake his counterpart from across the Channel.   
He has a reputation to maintain and to be caught listening to the heart of its enemy/friend/lover would immediately destroy it.   
It's a calm, steady heartbeat, even with the frenetic undertone almost all capital cities share.   
And in finding the Frenchman's arms suddenly circling his waist, blocking him before he can get up and leave, as for an old and tacit agreement, Arthur wished he could attribute the sound of his own heart to the normal London routine. 


	9. Worries

**Worries**

It's just a stupid commercial deal. Their kind signs and cancel hundreds of them.

England shouldn't be in France's room, blabbering in his pyjamas, after hours spent tossing in bed with terrible insomnia.   
"Do you think it can work?" he dares to ask in an indistinct mutter. This is ridiculous. They have spent centuries being enemies. If the Entente fails, it wouldn't be a surprise. After all, he is used to abandonment and betrayal. One more, one less ... it'd make no difference.   
"Well, it's been two hours and you haven't tried to choke me yet."   
Which is already a good start. 


	10. Children

**Children**

France has a natural talent with children. Lying on his stomach on the nursery carpet, he plays with little George, while Charlotte puts pink ribbons in his hair, and he fits perfectly. This seems to be his element, even more than when he pursues yet another romantic interest. 

So much he pleaded his own Prime Minister, the English one and the entire royal family, that in the end, he got permission to play a bit with the royal kids.

"Come along," he prays, in Arthur's direction. He pouts when Arthur reminds him that his Eurostar train for Paris leaves in an hour. The children plead too.   
"Okay, but only five minutes."


	11. Mistake

** Mistake **

Arthur hasn't yet decided whether France, standing at the back of the cell with his arms crossed, wants to strangle him or just burst out laughing in his face.  Maybe both. Certainly, he's enjoying throwing salt on wounds.

"Really, great job, Angleterre." 

"Shut up, frog! I'm trying to focus. " 

Crouched on the ground, England nails magic symbols and twirls into the ground.

"I see it. I see it." 

God, how much he wishes to cancel that patronizing expression from France's face once and for all. 

As if he were in a position to criticize, he and his "Invincible Maginot line". 

"Yes, but I don't blow up an entire rescue operation because I looked the wrong way before crossing the street. 


	12. Miniskirt

** Miniskirt **

England has very mixed feelings at the moment, even more than usual. And if France is involved, the situation becomes almost impossible to manage. 

Especially if the aforementioned decides to show up at the disco wearing high heels and a bloody leather miniskirt. He even sashays, waving his ass.

The show is as horrible as it is intriguing, depending on the tastes. Arthur would bite his tongue off rather than admitting it, but he definitely tends toward the latter. 

He quickly grabs a shot for his suddenly dry mouth.

Later, he'll have to end Miss Quant some thank-you gift. Or the fee of his analyst. 


	13. Asylum

** Asylum **

England has found him at his doorsteps, more in disarray than he could hide, the greenish face of a violent internal crisis.

"Good evening, Angleterre, do you have any space left for a fugitive?" Francis has tried to joke, with a wink and the drawn smile he has had throughout all the afternoon meeting between Churchill and De Gaulle 

"You've been given accommodation," replies Arthur. He would slam the door in Francis face out of habit if it weren't for that desperate look. Behind the mask, France is begging not to leave him alone. 

"Oh, alright. But you'll still sleep in the guest room." 


	14. Tastes

**Tastes**

It only takes a small bite for France to gag. 

"How can you eat this stuff?" 

Marmite could easily be classified as a weapon of mass destruction.

England bites into another cracker, black with that terrible jam. Heaven's knows how he can still argue against French cuisine, rambling about how it is just a bunch of horror food hidden behind some fancy names. He throws disgusted glances to France's escargots and never loses a chance to repeat how cheese mould must have gone to France's brain.  
"You know, you don't need to pretend you like this," Francis insists.   
"It's not my fault if your stomach is too delicate."


	15. Subway

**Subway**

The signs of an impending disaster are all there: the stiff posture, the wrinkle between the eyes, the nervous throbbing of the fingers. 

Gritting his teeth, France regrets not having insisted more on taking a taxi from the airport to the U.N Headquarter.

Perhaps France should grab England by the collar - the other nation is already spotting spirited eyes and drooling from the mouth - and drag him away before he could massacre the poor fool who adamantly insists in saying New-York subway is better than London's.


	16. Hunger

**Hunger**

  
The scene is peculiar, to say the least. England rubs his eyes for probably the hundredth time. The gesture only helps in causing the beginning of a migraine.

And opening and closing the fridge doesn't help to change the fact that it is absolutely empty. He turns on his heels, uncertain on how to manage the situation, his tone vaguely concerned.

Surrounded by leftover dishes, all strictly of local cuisine, France barely raises his head, face soiled with crumbs and fingers greasy from an impromptu snack that has definitely gone out of control.  
"And you call this midnight munchies?"


	17. Acting

**Acting**

The blade of shadow from the anti-sun curtain cuts in half the face of the man on stage, as he turns slightly toward the skull in his hand. 

There's anguish in his gestures and expression, in the blurred limbo between fiction and reality.

England acts constantly. He always follows a precise, pre-defined script for his daily life, hiding behind a shield of obstinate composure, a vitriolic sarcasm and a contemptuous pride.

That's why, in the dark frenzy of the wings and the crazy nights of alcohol in forgotten pubs, France grins for the pleasure of having seen the mask shatters in pieces. 


	18. Affection

**Affection**   


Like all the members of his family, France is tactile. For him, human relations inevitably pass through touch, starting by the habitual two kisses on the cheeks at each encounter.  
England vaguely registers the rustling of the crowd, as it divides to make room, as a warm breath tickles the strip of skin left uncovered by the scarf. Then, there's a sudden caress from those same knuckles that have so often caused him a black eye. They touch his cheekbones with surprising delicacy.  
Reluctant fingers intertwine, as he lets himself be dragged into an embrace from which he discovers he doesn't want to escape.


	19. Fear

**Fear**

Legends say nothing can frighten the great Albion, the nation that once dominated over the seas and had an empire from one corner of the globe to the other. The haughty country who keeps a hellish chair in his basement and summons demons at will.

France woke up to the sound of an inhuman screech. In the light of a bed-lamp that just a few years earlier they wouldn't have dared to turn on, England's face is distorted by terror.   
He claws at France's shoulders with the same iron grip he had during the long, sleepless nights when the terrible cacophony of the anti-aircraft sirens heralded a new wave of bombing.  
"They're just some thunders."


	20. Waking up

**Waking up**

The reassuring notes of his national anthem don't sweeten finding himself in a bed that has become way too familiar.  
England rolls on the side he would even begin to consider as his if he didn't know too well to not be the only one.

France sleeps clinging to his pillow. England hates him. He hates the blonde hair on France's chest and that one blue eye when it opens to stare at him. He hates the way France whispers his "Bonjour, chenille."  
He hates the story the room tells him. He buries the face in the mattress. "Again?" he mumbles  
And he hates that smirk. "It would seem so."


	21. Autumn

Autumn is far from being France's favourite season. He surely has a better disposition towards summer, for obvious reasons.

On the contrary, England seems to adapt perfectly to the October climate. London's autumns are not for everyone, grey and wet with a constant, depressing dripping, but Arthur knows the corners of the city where the season explodes in all its beauty.  
Like the yellow and red apotheosis made by the layer of leaves that covers the road in St. James Park.  
The thermos of milk and cinnamon tea is lukewarm and in walking with his favourite caterpillar, Francis thinks he could as well begin to reconsider his seasonal preferences


	22. Cohabitation

Contrary to popular belief, England isn't a patient person, only very good at repressing his emotions, no matter how bad it actually is for his health.

If the bombs don't kill him, the ulcer France is giving him since they took asylum under his roof will do.

Especially since he is not a guest he can kick out after the usual three days.

So all is left for England is to invent new and crazy solutions to the problem, like fixing his eyes on the embroidery work when the frog decides to wander naked in the living room or hiding his ration of soap before the other can consume it all.


	23. Make-up

The blush makes England sneeze. He still can't believe France managed to convince him. Some pink substance colours France's fingertips. England jerks back. France looks at him wounded.  
"He's a nude. He can barely be seen."  
It has been since 1789 Arthur has not put lipstick on, punk period excluded. He misses a bit all those scandalised faces from when he used to walk in the House of Lords with his face covered in piercings, his hair tinted with the most improbable colours. Those were good times.   
"On second thought, don't you have something brighter?"  
France lights up. "Obviously. Mascara too?"  
"Of course I want mascara too."


	24. Cuddles

They ended up hugging on the couch, the telly broadcasting some cheesy soap-opera t in the background.   
Arthur leans into the touch of a cupped hand against his cheek, basking in a gesture where tenderness and care have replaced any other form of desire. 

It's a new affection, unusual after centuries of struggle and sex.  
He cuddles in Francis' lap until his head is resting in the crook of Francis' neck, Francis' chin on his crown.   
From time to time, he even turns his head enough to leave butterfly kisses on France's jawline, in the quiet of a normal afternoon. 


	25. Picnic

Given the number of dishes they took out of their baskets, one would think they invited half Europe to participate in their picnic. Blame it on their usual rivalry, expressed even in a match to who prepare the best meal.

France carefully puts slices of already buttered bread on the tray, while England cuts a portion from her beloved meat pie. With salads, saucers of pickled vegetables and slices of roast beef, there is barely enough space to sit.  
No doubt their planned lunch will go on until dinner time.


	26. Majordomo

Who knows if Sir Blackburn's calm before Arthur's fury is due to the proverbial English's stiff-upper-lip or to the knowledge of who is actually in front of him. The weak "... in four years of honourable service" is enough to make England burst into a loud cackling. Four years! How adorable.  
He has known every nook and cranny of Buckingham Palace since well before Queen Victoria moved the entire royal family there. He slightly turns to exchange an accomplice glance with France, still standing in the doorway, before pointing out that he has the last word on the management of the building when it comes to official occasions.  
The centenary of Entente is no exception.


	27. Bed

"A Queen-size-bed?"  
With all the implications, especially with England standing there with his arms crossed over his chest as if waiting for some approval.  
"I just wanted to be more comfortable, alright?"

France could even believe it if it weren't that Arthur is used to sleeping on hard wooden surfaces, in tiny ship cabins. 

"And for no other reason?" France insists, his arms already moving to embrace the other nation. England can protest as much as he wants, but he can't deny that it's been two years since France spent his nights at England's house in the guest room and not because he sleeps on the couch.


	28. Flowers

Flowers

  
England weaves stems in the shadow of the kitchen, the shutters half-closed so that the warm July sun doesn't damage the pile of fresh irises on the table.  
He combines blue and purple petals - and there is no meaning behind the colour choices, no matter how much he keeps ignoring the yellow flowers. Even though he bought them.   
Not a sign of white iris and for a good reason!

Flower language may have evolved in time and not be universal, but England can perfectly taste the grave he's digging himself in that single, yellow iris he puts in the bouquet on the fly while already giving it to the courier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Purple iris means royalty, blue for faith and hope, white for purity and yellow for passion and/or a strong friendship.


	29. Work-out

France's skin glistens with sweat, his deltoids contracting in the effort of a new flex.  
England counts, chronometer in hand. From time to time he rests his foot on France's back, charging it with all the weight of his own body. It feels like being back five hundred years, to the days of salt, struggles and complete domination.  
The frog hasn't the mania for military training, like Prussia or Germany, nor does he possess America's natural strength. He is just a stupid esthete who loves having a beautiful body.  
"Do you really have to count in English?"  
"Shut up and continue."


	30. Phone call

It's the phone ringing at three in the morning. It makes Francis jolt awake, turning on the TV searching for an emergency he soon discovers to not be real.

"Angleterre, do you know what time it is?" he slurs in French, still half-asleep. The other end of the receiver is silent. Nothing of the habitual disconnected, drunk screams in English. It's just breathing, broken, laboured.

"Bad dream?" 

England's whisper is barely audible. "It's stupid." 

It's almost tender as France image him in his pyjamas, hair all ruffled. 

"Do you want me to stay on the phone with you for a while?" 

That England, in his proud silence, doesn't hang up is more than enough for an answer.


	31. Post-it

It's from the meeting with those two historians that France spread post-it notes around the house. He doesn't use them to write boring things, like "buy the milk" or "don't forget to call Spain" because in a week it's his birthday like normal people do. 

He writes down dates and fragments of life and he covers entire walls with them. As if that could help with his memory, to remember a thousand years of life.

Yet, England is having a lot of fun by making its contribution to the cause, adding corrections in red pen to Francis's notes.


	32. Beach

The waves at Juno Beach cancels England's footprints in seconds. He lies down on the shore, uncaring if the sea-water wets his high uniform, right where somebody shot him straight in the throat.   
"Too boring ceremony for you?"   
He stares back at France from the bottom up, all polished, completely different from the human wreckage to whom he told, "we will take it back", in Algeri.   
"Of course, you organized it."   
"Yes, and your speech is about to start. Shall we go? "   
The only thought makes England nauseous. He breathes in the salty air to calm down. Then he grabs the hand France stretches out to him.   
"Let's go."


	33. Punk

  
That England's gentlemanly behaviour is only a facade, France knows all too well. It is still not enough to prepare him to see Arthur walk into the conference room with enough metal to break any metal detector, flashing his middle finger at every single proposal.

  
"Your diplomatic skills are rusting. You should work on it," he comments, later than night, brain pounding for the harsh music of the club.  
Arthur nails him to the wall. "Fuck diplomacy."

His piercings sparkle in the dim light. Francis would count them one by one if the Englishman didn't soon drag him into other activities.


	34. Baker

The last thing England expects upon entering that small bakery is to find France there. Not in line to buy baguettes, but behind the counter.  
"What are you doing here?" he exclaims, almost choking on his spint.  
"Work" the Frenchman replies, seraphic, after the obvious initial surprise.  
“You already have a job. It's called: being a nation."  
Arthur has barely the time to breathe lately, let alone thinking about having an extra job.  
"And I'm doing it."  
"In a bakery."  
In case the concept wasn't clear.  
“Good bread improves the mood. You could call it an help to the community. 


	35. Sleepover

  
"What do you want to do, a sleepover where we put on nail polish and braid each other hair?" an exasperated England blurts out. It's way past midnight and a certain Frenchman keeps delaying the moment he'll finally return to his hotel room.  
Dear, he doesn't like France's face a bit; nor that the frog has suddenly made a turn on his heels. "I'll be right back," he shouts, running away.  
A disaster. England always forgets not everyone is smart enough to understand sarcasm.  
"Wait, I wasn't serious," he yells, but Francis is already gone.   
Well, he could still lock the door. 


	36. Underwear

"Do you still wear those things?" Francis exclaims as he takes off Arthur's pants. For being the Country of Love it has a knack for ruining the atmosphere. England shrugs.  
"I'm happy with them."  
They're elegant and warm enough for his climate. Not that he needs to justify himself   
"And what about these?" he replies instead, pulling the elastic of what must be the latest American gimmick in terms of underwear.  
"They are very comfortable, you know."  
"I'd rather say indecent."  
"And I'd say you're too demure if I didn't know you."  
Francis's hands fumble with the laces. "Are you sure you don't do it on purpose?"  
"Let's say I like to complicate your life."


	37. Cold

France has poked his nose out the window five times already, for half a second before running back to put another sweater on top of those he's already wearing.   
At the door, England mentally calculates the time to get to the subway and the road from there to the ice rink.  
"Are you done?"  
"Sorry if I don't want to freeze to death out there."  
He puts a woolly cap on his head, searching the drawers for a second scarf.  
"You'll still die if you don't hurry."  
Given Canada's visceral passion for hockey, arriving late to the game will make frostbite the least of their problems.


	38. Orphan

  
  
England held his head up high for the entire duration of the ceremony. He kept the composure the weight of his role requires, on his face a polite smile for all the dignitaries and his eyes lost into the void. Standing on the sidelines, observing the scene, France knows that look too well. He had it for months, not too many years ago.  
Someone raises their glass, inviting to toast. It's a nice day of celebration, with plenty of food until dawn, and everyone rejoices.

Everyone, except for one child who has just lost his mother and bites his lip to stifle his sobs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't look for historical accuracy, there isn't none.


	39. Plane

  
It truly is a gem of engineering, all flowing and sparkling lines. After too many years of sleepless nights and just as many nervous breakdowns, there it is, ready to take off. England wipes away a tear.

"It's beautiful. We did a great job."  
"Yeah."

The cabin is just as pretty. France grins from ear to ear. Then, he accommodates at the pilot seat, winking.  
"So, what about we take this beauty for a ride?"  
"Of course. Move."  
"Why do you have the one piloting?"  
"Because I'm a better pilot than you. Plus, it was my idea."  
"But I paid for it. Give me the wheel."

Maybe they still to work a little on concord.

**Author's Note:**

> So, this was born as a project in a writing group to write as much prompts as possible and I'm currently trying to do them all by Christmas. I'm the usual poor writer who needs validation, so I'm back at it with the usual "let's put these into English and publish on AO3" stuff.  
> They are pure drabbles in Italian, but probably won't be in English. Go figures.  
> Anyway, enjoy.


End file.
